


Epiphaneia

by pollitt



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Good Omens Holiday Exchange 2018, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Matchmaking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-23 22:24:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19160191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pollitt/pseuds/pollitt
Summary: (One angel + one demon + drinking at the Ritz) + mystery flower delivery = something millennia in the making





	Epiphaneia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vebira](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vebira/gifts).



> Happy winter/holidays, Vebira! Thank you for providing such wonderful prompts (I couldn’t decide between two, so I went with both :) and I hope you enjoy this wee tale. Thank you to my beta for her help, as always.
> 
> This was written for the Good Omens Holiday Exchange 2018.

It was a late summer day like many others. Or at least it  _had_  been a late summer day when Crowley and Aziraphale first arrived at the Ritz for lunch — table for two with a reservation under the name of one Mr. Fell. It had been their tradition, an anniversary of sorts, that had just sort of  _happened_  after the end of the world had not.  
  
They’d toasted to witches and witchfinders. To mediums and Satanic-nuns-turned-businesswomen. To the bravery and imagination and loyalty of children. They raised a glass to Adam Young.   
  
And now it was no longer a late summer day, but a late summer evening, and yet another bottle of wine had just arrived at their table.  
  
“And then your dozen roses showed up at the shop,” Aziraphale said, swinging his hand outward and nearly knocking over his glass of wine. He turned toward Crowley, his hand just missing Crowley’s glass as well. Crowley blessed, but he could help neither the laugh that easily escaped nor the fond smile.  
  
“Just like that.” Crowley said, snapping his fingers. At a table nearby, the platinum card of one of the diners would soon be found to be at its credit limit. The demon's smile was sharp and bright.   
  
Aziraphale’s demonstrative hand was re-routed once again as he cupped Crowley’s jaw, his thumbing rubbing over the point of tooth — no,  _fang_ — that transfixed him.  
  
“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, the ‘z’ sliding flat with the faintest of hisses. He almost gave in to the urge to bite the thumb that was brushing his bottom lip, but instead, Crowley leaned into the warmth of Aziraphale’s touch.  
  
“Hmm?”   
  
Aziraphale’s cheeks were a pleasant shade of pink, and Crowley wasn’t sure if it was from the alcohol. . . Or something else entirely. And what was it the angel had just said that Crowley wanted to ask him about?   
  
“I think I’m about to kiss you.” Crowley was fairly certain that wasn’t what he’d meant to ask, because although it had been a statement, it was really more of a question. And as soon as he’d said it, he realized it was perhaps one of the best questions he’d ever thought to ask. “I’d rather like to.”  
  
“I’d rather like that you would.”  
  
It wouldn't be telling the truth to say the kiss was the first for either — one cannot interact with all of human history and remain untouched. But it wouldn’t be an overstatement to say that when Crowley leaned in and Aziraphale did the same, and they met somewhere midway over the corner of their table at the Ritz, something happened that had been millennia in the making.  
  
A man some tables away gave a disapproving huff at the audacity of the younger generation and their displays of public affection. In his day a hand on the knee, or the brush of fingers across the table would do and . . . his menu spontaneously burst into flame.   
  
“S- Sorry, wait, did you say  _my_  dozen roses?” Crowley asked, finally landing on the words that had caught his attention earlier.  
  
Aziraphale nodded happily. “I didn’t think you’d be such a romantic, but it just goes to show that even after all these years, my dear, you can still surprise me.”  
  
A crease formed between Crowley’s eyebrows as though he was thinking hard — which at the moment he was. “I didn’t send you any roses.”  
  
Aziraphale blinked and reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out the cream colored card that had accompanied the delivery. “But there was a card. If you didn’t send them—”  
  
Crowley looked down at the card and the simple greeting —  _To Aziraphale, From Crowley_. Below the words were the name of the florist and its address. “Aziraphale, why would I send flowers from Lower Tadfield?”  
  
“Adam?” Aziraphale gasped, and his surprise was so pure, so  _Aziraphale_ , that Crowley kissed him again.   
  
“With some help, I’m sure.” If Crowley had to guess, the flowers most likely had been Pepper’s idea. 

Aziraphale took another sip of wine. “We _did_ have reservations. I didn’t make them and you don’t believe in them." A look crossed his face. "Crowley, you don’t think it’s his doing that we—”  
  
Aziraphale waved an indicating hand between them.   
  
“I can give into temptation all on my own, angel.” Crowley’s smile was all teeth and all for Aziraphale.  
  
Aziraphale nodded, his cheeks flushing again. He reached across the table and covered Crowley’s hand with his own. “He’s always done things his own way, putting things as they should be.” Aziraphale curled his fingers around Crowley’s and, with a glint that was more devilish than Crowley had seen in a good long while, he said something that left the demon’s jaw nearly on the floor. “You know it’s been ages since I’ve stayed at the Ritz and, if you’d indulge my effort, I believe our room is ready.”  
  
And as soon as Aziraphale said it, it was. (Crowley’s world of reservations belonging to someone else was Aziraphale’s world as well, and never more so than in that moment.)  
  
They stood, the slight tremor of their limbs a mix of inebriation and anticipation, and as Crowley’s arm slithered around Aziraphale’s waist, he whispered. “Lead the way.”  
  
—  
  
Adam Young’s birthday arrived with much fanfare — it’s not every year that a young man turns 16 — and as he watched the pile of presents grow with the arrival of each guest, he kept an ear out for the familiar sound of a 1926 Bentley. And when it finally roared up the driveway — Adam, Wensleydale, Brian, and Pepper stood at the door waiting to investigate what gifts it would be bringing.  
  
“It looks too small for over 60 bits,” Brian said, eyeing the package in Aziraphale’s hand.  
  
“Didn’t your father say you weren’t allowed a new gaming system until you learned how to play a game more than once?” Wensley asked, hoping that, despite Mr. Young’s edict, that expertly-wrapped gift was indeed a new system. Sunday’s paper had had a long article detailing the new system, and Wensley was eager to see the new graphics.  
  
Pepper, however, was focused on something else. “Adam,  _look_.” she said, brushing hair from her shoulder and pointing at her neck with her fingers.  
  
It was a late summer day unlike any other. When one angel and one demon came bearing electronic gifts for a teenage Antichrist. And the boy, now a young man, would smile and  _not_ point out the hickeys at his godfathers’ collars.


End file.
